A Coveted Pain
by Ennuibelle
Summary: Five figures of former importance in the Shivering Isles left behind documents upon either passing or leaving the Madgod's realm; each contributing to a tragic tale of love, betrayal, and pain written by the Champion of Cyrodil, the Madgod's replacement.
1. Introduction

**This is my first Elder Scrolls fan fiction - and I am truly excited to share this story with the fanfiction community. This story has lingered in the back of my mind for about four months now, and I'm thrilled to have finally put it together. I'm writing this story in a different format - very different from stories I have written before. I've decided to combine a first person and third person viewpoint. I would like it to be clear to my readers that the Champion of Cyrodil has now taken the throne in place of Lord Sheogorath. This story is based off the Shivering Isles expansion - and set in the time period established after the fall of Lord Dagon. I decided to give a brief introduction of the "author" of the following story to give the reader a general idea of who reigns over the isles and the setting/time period. I will insert into the chapter following this prologue/introduction brief notes from the "author", Elrohir, who finds a fascination among various documents he found during his first three years as Lord of the Isles. These notes will always be in _italics_. And any notes from me (the real author) will always be in bold (note that I am underlining 'bold' now because this text is already bold). Otherwise, the story will be written without any fancy change to the text and written as it if it were intended to be a book. **  
><strong>Also! A quick disclaimer - I do not, have never, nor intend to own any Elder Scrolls game, character, story line, etc. These all belong to Bethesda. I did create Elrohir, but the idea of Elrohir and anything he did follows the story lineideas created by Bethesda. Not me. Bethesda. Just so were clear. Now please, do enjoy!**

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><p>Upon assuming a respected role, one would re-evaluate themselves to fit the criteria of those respecting them. I, for one, would not take a leader seriously if he did not take himself seriously. Those placed in charge of something always depict themselves a certain way to others. While every leader is different, every leader shares a variety of traits that grants them the title, "Leader". I once considered a leader to be charismatic, full of wisdom, and willing to provide and aid his followers. I would follow a man who could bring together a mass of ordinary people through the spoken word. True inspiration can be spoken in simple sentences; as long as the speaker knows how to form them correctly and peak the listener's interest. My idea of a leader shifted from one who simply walked a devout group through life to one who devoted themselves to the group that they intended to lead, granting their followers a system based on working together as a whole to build into whatever it was that the leader intended to lead. A leader, in my mind, works with his followers to create something worth leading. Not precisely equality but a general fairness. Looking back, I can hardly remember a leader I considered "fair". I was born and raised to respect the nine and follow their lead into a divine and healthy existence. I was never on good terms with the nine, though, for I never understood their purpose. Nine Gods intended to guide man through life, setting an example for man to be "good" and "gracious" to one another. Punishment will follow the wicked, but the wicked can be forgiven.<p>

Forgiveness is a difficult concept to grasp. For me, at least. My mother was devout to the nine until her dying breath, believing that even the worst of mankind could be accepted into the heavens to live among our spiritual ancestors. She hardly accepted any idea of superstition. Ghosts, ghouls, or zombies were out of the question as far as my mother was concerned. She never believed in the damned, only in the saved. Her thoughts and feelings regarding thus are ultimately a result of my father's premature death. Or at least, that's the situation I've always related my mother's devout faith to. Being a merchant, my father traveled often. He made good money and always found a way to provide enough for my mother and I to live in a decent house deep within the walls of Bruma. I was never grateful for this house. Not until I lost it, that is. I'm of Bosmer decent. Therefore, I am not keen to cold areas. Though they are not unbearable; for I am of a Nordic background, as well. My mother was a feeble Bosmer female, red haired and tan skinned. Her health was quick to fail though her heart was strong and steady. She would love with all of her being; I often reflect and wonder if that was what took away from her physical health. In fact, this wasn't the only oddity about my mother. The other was her interest in my father, who was a strong Nordic male with horrible manners and no discretion.  
>I was a direct result of this odd pair. Others viewed me as interesting while some saw me as an annoyance. Either way, growing up I was a tall, pale, slender Bosmer with a potentially embarrassing background and a thirst for knowledge.<br>My father pushed education with my mother, who only felt it necessary that I learned my basics and built from my talents. It was easy for my mother to raise me her way because of my father's absence. In fact, I often contribute a majority of my naivety to my mother's stubbornness in pushing self interest regarding talents and skills. I also believe that after my father's death, she just stopped caring altogether in worrying herself with raising a child to society's standards and instead busied herself with praying to the nine everyday in hopes that my father's soul was accepted among the heavens. This act of "devout faith" contributed in pushing my education quite a bit far back.

My father died of natural causes, funny enough. One would think that a traveling merchant would have died a rather eventful death. Whether it was being ambushed by bandits or attacked by a wild animal. My father died in the dark back bedroom of the Drunken Dragon Inn in Blackwood. He was selling a strong Mead and was down on sales that week. The Surilie Company had just gained popularity and begun manufacturing wine in the southern areas of Cyrodil. These fine wines had reached as far as Blackwood forest and gained popularity among the Count and Countess of Leyawiin. Being the man my father was, he thought irrationally as far as Mead sales went. In an attempt to bargain a trade with the owner of the Drunken Dragon Inn, my father managed to drink eleven bottles of said Mead and died of alcohol poisoning. The innkeeper disposed of my father in what way he figured best- by tying a good sized rock to my father's ankle and tossing him into a nearby body of water. We were informed by a quick written note of his passing three days afterward.

To this day I will never know which body of water holds my father's skeleton; though I'd most likely be better off not knowing. Instead, I remember him as the man he was before his passing; drunk yet intelligible. His death destroyed my mother. Day after day she gazed out the front window of our tiny house in Bruma, awaiting his return, but knowing that he was never coming back. After two months of no support from my father's travels; we lost our home and were forced to relocate to the Great Chapel of Talos. In this chapel, my mother discovered her newfound faith and forced it upon me until her unexpected death. Yes, I was orphaned. I was orphaned as a teenager. I never quite expected for my mother's strong light to burn out... but now it is quite understandable. We were poor, miserable, cold, and lacked the company of our sole provider and protector. We lived in poverty. And while my mother prayed to the nine every day to save our souls; she was slowly withering away. Potions were out of the question. Even the small errands I ran for townsfolk couldn't provide a cure to her sickness. She died in her sleep. A peaceful, yet bone chilling death. She was buried in an unmarked grave outside the chapel. I visit this site often now, placing forget-me-nots on the small patch of Nirn that belongs to my mother. And though I do not believe in the nine, nor believe that they are the ideal leaders that should influence the residents of Cyrodil- I do believe that my mother and father are much happier now that they are reunited among the heavens. This thought carries me through my life with some shred of contempt. It does indeed provide a better understanding as to why the nine are worshipped so passionately. I, however, took another path of worship. One practiced by few and frowned upon by many. Daedra worship.

To this day I recall a life of crime following the death of my parents. My first thievery. My first murder in the name of "sacrifice". The lies I've told and the friends I've betrayed. All, now, completely irrelevant. I have seen many things over the course of twenty four years. I've seen the inside of a prison cell as well as a hidden passageway that granted me prison break. I've watched the great Emperor Uriel Septim fall before my very eyes, as well as hold the Amulet of Kings and obtain responsibility of restoring the empire. I have climbed the ranks of the Dark Brotherhood and reached a high ranking position among the Black Hand, as well as unmask the Grey Fox and obscure his identity as my own. I have done and seen many things. Though they are all now memories. Figments of the past that guided me to be the man I am today. Through this chain of events I've never considered myself a "leader", though I've never considered myself a "follower" either. Daedra worship is a fascination of mine though I never took to worshipping a Daedric Prince. Instead, I sought to become one. Through an uncanny circumstance, granted. I still sought the idea of becoming a Daedric prince. One capable of obscuring a realm reflecting my personal intentions. I achieved this goal- and now sit upon the throne of the Shivering Isles, where Jyggalag once sat masked as the Lord Sheogorath. I now assume that title. I am the Madgod, decorated by my realm of nonsense. I was once called by another name... but that name is irrelevant. As is my past.

I pen this story now, not to tell you of who I am or the places I've been or the things I've seen. I target the people I've encountered as a "leader". My studies of those who "lead" still continue as I assume the role of a "leader" presently. And as the Madgod I've encountered many who devote their lives to the teachings of Sheogorath and enjoy the company of this whimsical realm. I enjoy my followers and intend to outstretch my hand in joining them to create a more stabilized nonsense. One built from cooperation. I now have an obsession with function. I wish to reach those who cannot be reached. I have very few who value my teachings. In fact, I value those who value my leadership more than they would ever understand. This story is about a follower. A courtship, actually. The former Lord Sheogorath picked up a stray among the living in Cyrodil and brought her into his world. Here he taught her acceptance and assigned her a role to fit the reasons behind her rejection in the sensible world and through her freedom to practice her beliefs; she discovered a love for the Madgod that burned as passionately as a million torches. I've discovered diaries written by this former lord, some dedicated only to this courtship. Among these diaries I've unleashed a passionate tragedy involving five residents of the isles; all bearing a similar passion toward one another. Whether it be requited or unrequited. I've come across many documents spread across the isles upon taking the former lord's place. None of which were quite as interesting as these. I have counted at least twelve; combined they tell the tale of a love story shared among five people of some notable status. I found these journal entries quite entertaining... and decided that I would combine the twelve documents into a singular story of passion, tragedy, drama, and death. After many rough copies and drafts, I finally perfected a tragic love story. The content of this tale may be lengthy. It contains mature content, fit to engage one who is absolutely sure that they can handle such a tale. So please, by all means, flip the page and begin reading. While your eyes scan my glorious text shedding light on the dark past of the Shivering Isles, I will conduct a search. This search's sole intent and purpose is to track down the authors of said documents and possibly interview, and or extract further documentation to write a sequal. While I have a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that I will have little luck in finding these people; I will now thank them for writing such fascinating journal entries that sparked my sudden interest in their lives. I hope that my readers are just as engaged with the story as I was with the primary sources; and takes a lesson away from my writing.

A quick disclaimer- I do not own, nor any knowledge of the whereabouts of any further documents associated with the following authors: Relmyna Verenim, Nanette Don, Syl, Thadon, and Lord Sheogorath (formerly/now known as Jyggalag). I did not write or own any work associated with this stories; I only organized the documents into a story based on the content of the documents.  
>Now, please, proceed to the next page and dive deep into the recesses of the new Lord Sheogorath's vivid imagination.<p>

Signed,  
>Elrohir Telrúnya II (The Lord Sheogorath)<p>

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading! If you'd like, go ahead and review the story. I always welcome constructive criticism. The first chapter should be done by the 19th of February. If not, a reason will be posted in my bio. <strong>


	2. Chapter One

She was admirable, at best. Though he wasn't quite sure what to make of her. Any man's knees would weaken at the sight of a youth such as herself. It was not often that one could cross a woman at the time who could easily make a man glance twice upon her during her every day commute to her hobbies. He would know; he had an eternity of courtships following him. Something none of the wretched men that walked the streets of Anvil could relate to.  
>One by one, the Madgod reflected upon his former lovers. Each and every one possessing unique qualities chosen by him and him alone. He had a habit of courting the most beautiful of women; admiring them from afar and soon after approaching them at a time he considered them most vulnerable. They would notice him. He seldom wore a disguise, only clothing that better suit the area he occupied during his brief trips away from his realm. Though his face still bore unique features. Features fit for a prince. Once caught by their eye, he would notice the transition from casual to aware. Aware that there was a possibility that both parties could walk away with a benefit. They would walk toward him. Their eyes sparkle, expecting a smile fit to charm them. The Madgod would only too happily oblige. He would then speak only enough sentences to steal them away to his realm and provide for them enough gifts and favors to last them years of happiness. They grew old, however. Not in physical appearance so much as they grew tiresome to the Madgod. He would crave something new. Something exciting. Something unlike what he was experiencing. That woman, whoever she had been, would be cast from the realm- doomed to live out the rest of her existence picking up from the life she had left behind.<br>This occurrence would repeat itself throughout hundreds of years. Many a beautiful woman would fall prey to the Madgod only to be cast away like a dirty dish rag. The Madgod could only move forward. He would hope these women the best and continue on living out his silly existence. It was almost humorous that this thought crossed his mind shortly after gazing upon this Dunmer beauty. He hadn't reflected upon his promiscuous past in years. In fact, it hadn't even occurred to him that other women had once caught his eye before this magnificent creature. His attraction to her drew him in like a fish on a hook. He was determined to win her over. His quick wit and charm played back in his head as he adjusted his clothing and hair. He was almost positive that he looked every bit as handsome as always; though surely this time around the Madgod's self esteem was surely lacking. Where he once saw himself as quite the handsome fellow, he began to doubt his appearance in comparison to his infatuation. What a strange thought, a Daedric prince doubting his appearance! It was almost unheard of, really. Who would think that somebody who had been granted the power over their own realm, creatures, followers, and cosmic power would stress such a tiny detail such as physical attractiveness in the eyes of a singular female? Surely the Madgod had gone, well, mad.

And while he was busy detailing himself in every way possible in order to reach perfection; the Dunmer lass was casually strolling throughout the town of Anvil. He had spotted her from behind a broken gate that once protected the entrance to a walkway that wound a little ways to an abandoned home in the center of the town. The Madgod was simply strolling through Anvil, admiring the sea mist that carried over from the dock. His goal in visiting Anvil that week was to study and admire trade by ship. The Madgod had little to no need to worry about trade in his realm. Any resource needed by his people was already available to them. It was up to the residents of the Isles to utilize these supplies and strictly not up to the Madgod to concern himself with devising trade routes or trade alliances between Bliss and Crucible. He was fascinated by the idea of such a thing, however. And it was all the more interesting to eavesdrop on the ruthless pirates and silly sailors that stumbled drunkenly around the docks from time to time, singing songs and telling tales. The Madgod could find hours of entertainment in just one afternoon off the coast of Anvil. He also enjoyed watching the fire in the light house burn. After asking around and drawing context clues, he learned that the light house guided the ships to the dock at night. This seemed quite an ineffective way to herd ships, in the Madgod's mind. Why not simply create an instrument such as a compass to guide them back. Are they really dense enough to not see the faint lights of the town beyond the waves?  
>As harsh as his criticism regarding the light house was; the Madgod appreciated its uniqueness and charm. It definitely added to the beauty of Anvil. Though it certainly wasn't nearly as gorgeous as the Dunmer.<br>When she first caught his eye he stumbled backward. Taken aback by what his eyes were taking in. She was a sight that he had never witnessed before in the thousands of years that made up his existence. He ducked behind a pillar holding up the right wing of the Mage's guild, hoping she would not see him and suspect him of watching her. She was dressed in a teal blue robe. She wore her hood down, and from the looks of it her feet were covered by tan doeskin shoes. She looked as if she were a simple mage strolling through the town one peaceful afternoon. She was one of maybe five or six others who were roaming the streets at this hour of midday. The Madgod noticed an absence of weaponry on her body. Instead, she held a book under her right arm. Unfamiliar with the language that the book was written in, the Madgod refrained from worrying himself with the content of the book. It wasn't titled, anyways. Therefore it was unimportant to him at the moment.  
>Much could be described by her appearance. She was unique for her own kind, which led the Madgod to wonder whether or not she was of a mixed ethnic background. She was a dark skinned Dark Elf with high cheek bones and a squared off jaw. Her features were sharp and her skin as smooth and clear as it could get. She looked the equivilent of a story book maiden from Morrowind. However, her hair was pulled back out of her face. The Madgod was thankful for this; for he had a better look at the gorgeous features that made up this woman's face. Her hair, however, was the main concern. As beautiful as it was... it was a red bright as blood. He had never seen a color quite like it before. He doubted whether or not this color was natural, and furthermore questioned how on Nirn it got to be that color in the first place. She carried herself in such a graceful way; such a graceful woman should not be tainted by such a harsh hair color. This, of course, was the Madgod's selfish opinion.<br>Often spoiled and brought whatever he wanted whenever he wished it- the Madgod was unable to see past even the smallest flaw with a person. These selfish thoughts led to selfish actions and almost always created an air of self doubt within the person judged. Leaders often judge their followers. While leaders have the right to size up those who wish to follow him, the followers will also size up their leader. Not one person can be considered "perfect" in the eyes of another.

_The Madgod will soon learn values set down by his followers that strip him of judging others. Instead, he uses his own newfound comedy to create an air of discomfort if he's feeling the slightest doubt in someone. This, of course, is not his take immediately. Contrary to belief, the Madgod was just as serious as any other Daedric prince. It wasn't until he began to become actively involved with the life and activities of the residents of the Isles before he began to show his true silly intentions. Though it is also reflected through his writing that he always had silly intentions. Just a serious demeanor when placed upon the throne in his realm. Before this mysterious Dunmer entered his life, even his servant, Haskill, can recall in further documents that Lord Sheogorath only displayed a silly side when in the presence of somebody he didn't trust. This is a curiosity within itself. For there is one other person that he would trust just as much as Haskill; however he was hardly serious with her unless he was making a romantic gesture. Even then, she had trouble taking him seriously._

Little to her knowledge- the Madgod was sizing her up from the moment he laid eyes on her. He was convincing himself of reasons not to pursue this woman. Whether or not this was a result of his own self doubt or a strong sense of responsibility, no one could tell. The Madgod changed his mind every few minutes. And as she passed him by and entered the inn down the way, the Madgod collapsed against the pillar and slid to his knees. He had never felt so overwhelmed. Her mere presence evoked an emotion within him that he did not feel capable of feeling before. He could almost call it 'obligation'. He was just having a hard time coming up with a reason to feel 'obligated' to this woman at all. And while every bone in his human form was urging him with the utmost sincerety to strike up a small conversation with the girl in a further attempt to know her better; he declined his heart's desire and emerged from behind the pillar, on his feet. He hadn't the time for silly games such as this. Chasing women was an activity fit for mortals, not a God. The Lord Sheogorath had business to attend to. Now was not the time for silly courtships. Especially given the Madgod's history with women. In his mind he knew that she would end up just like the rest of them- stranded in the Isles until forced to relocate. The Madgod brushed off his clothing and started toward the gate of the city of Anvil. It was time for him to return home. He'd spent a good amount of his time wandering about when he could very well be at home dictating his people.

_What a harsh word, 'dictate'. Though I would like to note that I have studied dictators before. I consider Lord Sheogorath (or now, Jyggalag) to be somewhat of a dictator or a tyrant. Certainly not a fair and just ruler. I could further explain, but I don't want my author's notes to ruin the story._

The Madgod began his way toward the gate, eager to exit and flee to his realm. The comfort of the Isles was drawing him in. He felt a negative sensation grip his body. Something was not right in the Isles. In fact, something was very, very wrong. He stood very still and composed himself. The Greymarch was not due to happen for another four hundred and eleven years. Certainly, there were not obelisks obstructing his homeland once more. He surely felt that this was not the case. And a rage began to envelop the Madgod as his mind wandered to thoughts of Heretics and Zealots; an internal threat. His lordship was highly against the idea of mutiny. Only because he was the only authority figure to be overthrown. Given, Crucible and Bliss' duke and duchess. Sheogorath wasn't too concerned with them, however, for he could not in his right mind imagine that a person would be irrational enough to overthrow a minor position and soon be overthrown by the Madgod himself; for Sheogorath had no time for silly things such as replacing the authority he already had established. Such a rare case, should Syl or Thadon be replaced. And certainly not anytime soon.  
>Upon thinking these thoughts the Madgod's mind was interrupted by an outside disturbance. He had stopped in the middle of the pathway that winded itself throughout the city, by the great trea that stood tall outside the two guilds. He had heard shouting. And not just mindless rabble, but a debate between a man and a woman. A mischievous grin grew on the Madgod's face as he progressed toward the scene. Surely he would tweak the scene to make it just a tad more interesting. That was what the Madgod was best at doing, of course. Destroying good intentions and building on an already messy situation was all good fun to his lordship. And while he had a prior agreement to the nine in regards to disturbing the daily life of those in Tamriel; he couldn't help himself. He felt that there would be no punishment. It was all in the name of good fun, and who would get hurt? Why, nobody! The Madgod had no desire to walk away from such a scene with a murder on his hands. The thought annoyed him.<p>

The man and woman in question were none other than the Dunmer lady Sheogorath had encountered earlier behind the pillar. Only, her beautiful face had been warped with an angered expression. Sheogorath seized in a paranoid fear. She looked absolutely nothing like he'd remembered her. Perhaps it was because her face was scrunched tightly and angry. Perhaps it was because she was in a defensive stance. Either way; the Madgod was sure that this lass was nowhere near the definition of 'cute' when angry. She was a few feet away from the innkeeper, who had her leather-bound book tucked underneath one arm. Judging from her stance, she had every intention of getting the book back. Though it was certainly mind boggling to the Madgod as to how the man ended up with the book in the first place.  
>"You sorry wretch! You evil harlot! I banish thee! By the nine, stay away from my inn! Be gone! BE GONE!"<br>The Madgod was thoroughly impressed by the choice vocabulary spurting from the innkeeper's mouth. He was counting off the insults in his mind, observing the innkeeper's angry demeanor and inability to keep saliva from spewing from his mouth. The Madgod noticed the Dunmer girl's body language while taking her abuse. She took it rather well, avoiding any emotional or distressed facial expressions. She remained angry and was frozen in her defensive stance. The citizens of Anvil that surrounded the scene (or what few citizens were present at the time) were frozen in fear. Sheogorath observed this fear with the utmost interest. Not a single citizen blinked or moved an inch. They exchanged the occasional glance toward one another but that was it. This struck the Madgod as odd, considering his eagerness to view the argument in the first place. The innkeeper finished his insults and threw the book on the ground. It bounced off the cobblestone path and fell open. The Madgod couldn't see a single thing that was written, but it was certainly littered with notes and drawings of things beyond the Madgod's interests. Or perhaps even his own knowledge; something the Madgod would never admit. He watched as she scrambled to pick it up quickly and cradled it in her hands. "That's quite fine." She stated, brushing dust from the cover of the book. "Watch yourself, however. You are brave... so, so brave. I am all powerful. And you will feel my fury. You would make a fine experiment, though a stupid oafish one at that! If you so much as glance in my direction I will have you finished. I'll stay away from your silly inn. You keep away from the mere image of me. Don't even utter my name."

The Madgod began applause before the innkeeper had any chance to retort. Both the Dunmer and the innkeeper shot an annoyed glance in Sheogorath's direction as he clapped for an insanely long time. He was not afraid of these people. Her threats were empty threats as far as a Daedric prince was concerned... and the innkeeper was nothing short of a bumbling idiot. "My apologies!" Shouted the Madgod, still clapping, "Just simply admiring such an exchange of words! Do continue."  
>The innkeeper and the Dunmer waved the Madgod off and proceeded with staring at each other in the same angry way that they'd been staring at each other before. "You will be cast out of Cyrodil, Relmyna. Mark my words. Cast OUT!" Before Relmyna had a chance to retort a guard had rushed to the scene. He bound her hands immediately and handed the book to the innkeeper. The innkeeper blushed as he handled the tome, clearly not happy to have even been given the thing. Sheogorath watch in disappointment as Relmyna thrashed and kicked at the guards, demanding her book back. They ignored her cries and pleas and began pushing her in the direction of the castle. She was carried off by two guards and clearly handled as if she were a wanted criminal. Sheogorath highly doubted that she was anyone of ill intent; however, she was mysterious. Mysterious people tend to be the craziest. He knew from personal experience. His realm was the very foundation of crazy and not a single man, woman, or thing that resided in the Isles could be considered otherwise. Sheogorath stepped up to the innkeeper, who was still red in the face, hands trembling under the weight of the book, and snatched the book away. The innkeeper looked both grateful and annoyed as the Madgod claimed the book as his own. "I do hope you don't mind, good sir. I have the best of intentions."<p>

With that said, the Madgod stalked off. Leaving the innkeeper in gratitude as such a weight was lifted from his shoulders. And as Relmyna was carried away, thrashing and kicking, Sheogorath took his seat on the steps of the Mage's guild and opened the book to its very first page. And upon scanning the pages... the Madgod was determined to make this woman a permanent resident of the Isles.

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><p><strong>I realize I am a day late! My apologies. I broke my wrist after tripping over one of my cats _ Unfortunately, the wrist that was damaged happens the be located under the hand that I write with. Its a right bit easier to type with a broken wrist than it is to write. Anywho. As I said before, I am sorry and I'm also deeply sorry that the first chapter isn't necessarily as long as expected. I will certainly make up for it in the chapters to come.<strong>  
><strong>Chapter two should be posted on March 5. So keep a look out! I'm hoping I'll have it done by an earlier time, so it'd do you good to visit frequently just to make sure. <strong>  
><strong>Thank you for reading =) Please review and tell me what you think! <strong>


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